Where Rivers Meet

By Rick Shira

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• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 25, 2007
• ISBN: 9781469117034

Rick Shira

Rick Shira works for the local county sheriff’s office as the jail commander. Mr. Shira lives alone but spends as much time as possible with his children and grandchildren. He enjoys the outdoors and spends as much time as possible roaming the rivers and hills surrounding his home. Rick Shira lives in Grangeville, Idaho. Grangeville is a small town on the Camas Prairie in the foothills of the Bitterroot Mountains.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

T he beauty of the land was breathtaking. Soaring mountains covered

with evergreen trees. Yellow pine, white pine, red fir, white fir, cedar, tamarack, and yew wood, just to name a few. There were tangled masses of blackberry briers and acres of sweet huckleberry patches higher in the mountains. The most distinctive feature was the coming together of two rivers. Rivers of pure clear water teeming with life and giving life to the land and the creatures that inhabited the land. Osprey and eagle fished the rivers. On the tributary streams, occasional beaver built their dams, holding back water, giving mallards and Canada geese places to raise the next generation. Otter and muskrat made their homes and raised their young. Deer and elk came to drink. Bear and cougar stalked the land. Waterfowl and other birds were in abundance. It was a beautiful and bountiful land. Yet hidden in the beauty and the peace of this wilderness was tragedy and sorrow.

The house was run-down and ugly. The roof was old, and shingles were missing. The siding was an old brown tar paper siding peeling away from the walls, allowing moisture and termites to enter and rot the wood. The porch had a simple roof supported by two rotten poles over a patch of soil. The dirt extended to a yard of hard-packed earth with no blade of grass or blossom of flower to soften its harsh appearance. The house and the barren yard seemed like an example of how low, how destitute men could sink. It was a place of poverty. It was a house of neglect. It was a home of abuse.

In the midst of natural beauty and human tragedy, on the hard-packed dirt, in the yard of this dilapidated shack played a sweet young girl of ten; she wore a dress that was clean, but patched and wrinkled. Though her hair was tangled and her face was dirty, she was an innocent girl. She played quietly with a doll. It was an angel doll. As she played, a shadow fell over her. Betsy looked up and saw her daddy. A tall skinny man with haunted brown eyes with a pallor paling his face. Ben Hammond was dressed as shabbily as Betsy. A look of pure joy crossed Betsy’s face as she spied the one person in the world she loved. She jumped up, and her face lit up as her father reached for her. She ran into her father’s arms. He lifted her to his chest in a warm hug and asked in a voice full of emotion, How’s my little angel girl?

Ben was a pleasant-looking man. Lines at the corners of his mouth and eyes did not detract from his looks. Betsy, with happiness etched on her face and with no thought of anything except the excitement of seeing her father, exclaimed, Daddy!

Placing Betsy back on the ground, Ben stood to his full height, then noticed a dirty blood-stained rag wrapped around her hand. With the beginning edge of anger in his voice and at the same time showing deep concern for his young daughter, Ben asked, What’s this?

Ben’s thoughts turned immediately to Betsy’s stepmother, a shrew of a woman; but he needed help raising Betsy, or so he told himself. Ben was a weak man, and he knew he was also a sick man. In his own eyes, Ben loved Betsy with a fierce, intense emotion that at times threatened to consume him. With his great love came a crushing worry for this little girl. Ben made no excuses for himself; he knew the life his daughter must face would be filled with obstacles that might be impossible for her to overcome. Yet he hoped in his heart that something could happen to save his girl from the ugliness that lay in wait to pull her down.

Oh, it’s nothing, Daddy. Just a scratch, Betsy interrupted his thoughts.

Betsy didn’t want to tell her father about breaking the glass, nor did she wish to tell him about trying to sweep it up without Mama knowing. She didn’t want to tell about how Martha had hit her and knocked her into the pile of broken glass. Mama didn’t know about Betsy’s cut hand and wouldn’t have cared had she known. Betsy had said not a word, lifted herself off the floor, wrapped her hand, finished cleaning up the broken glass, and quietly went outside to play. Leaving her stepmother in an alcohol-induced haze.

That’s a purty big wrap for a scratch, Ben said. Can I see it?

At that precise moment the door to the shack burst open, and an attractive woman stood braced against the door. Her eyes fell upon Betsy before she saw Ben. He saw unveiled hatred and malice gleaming in them. He saw that at one time she had been beautiful, but the effect of too much booze, too many drugs, no morals, and her streak of vindictive meanness had taken their toll. Martha’s first thought upon opening the door had been to find Betsy and beat her. Martha wanted to take her meanness out on someone. It had become a habit. Betsy thought she was so good, always putting on innocent little airs, always trying not to find fault in anyone. Bah! Martha knew better; Betsy was no better than she was. Martha was bent upon proving this to Betsy. Too late, Martha registered Ben’s presence and noted that father and daughter were sharing a tender moment.

Something inside her alcohol-numbed brain felt the ugly stirring of jealously as Ben and Betsy jerked up from each other to face Martha. In a hard voice, devoid of emotion, Martha said, Well, well, if it ain’t the great man hisself! Her voice filled with a savage anger and hatred. You find any work?

Ben forgot his daughter’s hand. The tenderness on his face was replaced by a hard, wary look. Looking carefully at his wife, Ben replied, These are hard times for everyone, Martha . . . But his voice trailed away as Martha’s look of disgust seared Ben’s already-scarred and wounded soul.

In tones dripping with contempt she said, Why’d ya come home, Ben? If ya shot yerself, we wouldn’t be any worse off. Without giving him a chance to respond, Martha slammed the door to the shack. Ben stared at the door, then, as if he suddenly had no strength left in his legs, stumbled the few steps to an old bench and sat down. Putting his face in his hands, a feeling of hopeless anger and gut-wrenching worry overcame him. The pressure in his chest increased. It became difficult to breathe and to see. Ben wasn’t worried about himself; he was worried sick for Betsy. Suddenly, a small hand rested on his arm, and he pulled Betsy’s precious head against his shoulder.

In a voice full of trust, Betsy said, You’ll find work, Daddy.

His eyes filled with tears.

Daddy, you’ll get work. I know you will.

The lump in his throat and the pain in his heart were great.

Betsy bent and picked up her angel doll. Remember, Daddy, we have a guardian angel.

Ben looked slowly to the doll she held in her hands, then smiled and said, Well, how can we fail with a guardian angel?

Ben winked. Betsy looked at her father with love and hope in her eyes.

His smile slowly fading, he lost the courage to tell his daughter of the deadly disease slowly eating his body.

With an emotion that was a mystery to Betsy, he said, God only knows you will need a guardian angel!

Ben’s thoughts turned inward toward the consumption eating his lungs. Ben wasn’t so much worried about himself and about dying as much as what would happen to Betsy when he was gone. Ben had no one he could turn to for help. Betsy’s grandparents on both sides were dead. Ben shuddered at the thought of the life Betsy might be forced to live. The evils of alcohol, drugs, and immorality had entrapped Martha in a life of degeneracy.

With a fervor he had never before experienced, Ben bowed his head and said a silent prayer to whatever god there was. He prayed that God would protect his precious daughter from the evil that surrounded her. Ben prayed with all the feeling of a tender parent that Betsy would be protected, that her life would hold enough hope and enough love to keep her from falling into the traps that lay all around her. He explained to God with tormented soul that the circumstances Betsy found herself in were not her doing. As Ben agonized over the fate of his daughter, never once did he pray for himself. Never once did he think about the slow and painful death he was to face. As Ben sat on that old rickety bench in front of that ramshackle hut, in this most humble state of mind, with the head of his treasured daughter again resting on his shoulder, never did he realize the impact of that simple father’s prayer.

Betsy, on her daddy’s shoulder, was content in the safety of her father’s presence. Full of innocent admiration and trust, it never entered her mind that her father could not find work because he drank too much and too often. She saw nothing except that someone she held in hero worship. They sat quietly, one at peace and one tormented of mind, soul, and body.

A voice called out, breaking the spell, Hey, Betsy! Wanna go fishin’?

At the edge of the hard-packed dirt yard was a small freckle-faced boy—Tom, about the same age as Betsy, maybe a year or two older—dressed neatly in grubby clothes. Clothes that would have been Sunday-go-to-meetin’ for a boy in Betsy’s circumstances. Clearly from an upper class home, Tom was the only child of a prominent and very wealthy businessman.

Not always well-off, Tom’s mother and father had not been lured by the easy way of blaming their circumstances on others. Developing his own logging business, Tom’s father acquired land and mills by investing hard-earned riches back into the company. Tom knew nothing of this.

Over his shoulder, he carried a homemade fishing pole and a can of bait in the other hand. Without regard for class distinction, Tom waited patiently for Betsy to ask her father. Tom had disregarded the difference in his and Betsy’s background, even at school where the other children teased her. She was his friend, and that was all Tom concerned himself with. He had bloodied more than one nose on the playground when someone made fun of Betsy or hurt her feelings. Betsy was his best friend. She could run almost as fast as he could and could catch fish just as well. Almost. After all, she was still a girl.

Betsy looked at her father with happy anticipation on her face. Daddy, can I go?

Ben studied the two youngsters with amusement and love. Weeeelll.

Ben scrunched his face into a serious expression as though thinking about saying no. I don’t see what harm fishin’s gonna do ta anyone.

With a happy squeal, Betsy hugged her father and rushed off with Tom down the road toward the river.

With deep sadness in his eyes, Ben sat and watched them leave. Again, his thoughts turned to his daughter. What kind of a chance did she have at a life of happiness? Ben looked down, and there was the angel doll. He picked it up and smiled sadly; a great wrenching sob shook him. In desperation, Ben prayed very fervently, Please, God, protect my beautiful, innocent Betsy, while tears streamed unchecked down his face.

CHAPTER 2

T he river was wide and deep, the bank steep and in places a sheer

drop to the water below. Tom stopped at the only spot for several miles where the bank was gradual and sandy, a large deep pool formed by a bend in the river. Not too many yards downstream, the river undercut the bank in a shaded and protected spot where Tom had caught many fish. None of them anything to brag about except for one huge rainbow trout he’d seen many times. The temptation to try this spot again and have another go at the big trout was too much to pass up. Tom was doing the thing he loved to do more than anything else in the world with his best friend, and he was fishing. The sun was warm, and Tom’s mind was a happy blank in the lazy afternoon.

Betsy, studying Tom from the moment he dropped his baited hook into the water, was old enough to understand some of the differences between her and Tom. Being poor had never really bothered her until the other girls teased her about her clothes, and then some of the girls had said some really awful things about, well, she refused to even think such filthy thoughts. Betsy looked across the river and felt the peace of the wilderness fill her soul. The sounds of big rapids around the bend mingled with the gentler lapping of the water at the riverbank and farther downstream the sound of more big rapids. The rustle of the breeze through the trees and the bird sounds all combined to soothe a troubled heart.

Betsy turned back toward Tom and asked, Tom, does it bother ya much when ya get teased about bein’ with me all the time? You know. ’Cause I’m a girl?

Sometimes when the girls were really cruel and mean, she couldn’t handle the thought of Tom being teased and hurt on her account. Just the thought of someone being as mean to Tom as they were to her brought a tinge of angry red to Betsy’s cheeks.

Like all good fishermen, Tom blocked everything out of his mind except fishing. Naw.

With mingled amusement, Betsy feigned disgust. He sure made it difficult to talk sometimes. I heard one of your friends say I was your steady. Tom, what’s going steady mean?

Tom’s face turned pink with embarrassment. Shrugging his shoulders, he answered lamely, I don’t know . . . I think it means ya gotta kiss an’ stuff. Tom didn’t want to talk nonsense. Couldn’t Betsy just be satisfied with fishing? Suddenly, Tom sat up straight and tense. A huge fish, the fish, was inching slowly toward his bait.

Betsy, unaware that a once-in-a-lifetime fish was so near, continued her discourse on love. Ya mean on the lips? Yuck!

Tom held up a hand to silence her, all thoughts of love and kissing forgotten. There he is! Tom whispered.

Betsy looked where Tom pointed but couldn’t see anything except the gleam of sun off the surface of the river. Not thinking about how sound traveled, she asked excitedly, Where, Tom? I don’t see ’im.

Shh . . . you’ll scare ’im, Tom said in exasperation. Maybe he’d been wrong. Maybe, as good a friend as Betsy was, she wasn’t nearly as good a fisherman as he was.

Betsy, seeing the tenseness of his face and body, inched closer to the riverbank, still unable to see anything. I can’t see anyth—

The smooth surface of the water exploded into a million tiny beads of sparkling water as the huge trout took the bait and broke surface in an attempt to throw the hook. Betsy squealed in surprise and excitement. She had never seen a fish fight for its life as this one was doing. Enthralled, they forgot everything around them except for the fish. After several minutes, Tom finally was able to heave the monster trout onto the riverbank. Immediately the hook came out of the fish’s mouth, and it started flopping toward the water. Betsy dived for the escaping fish and grabbed it only to have it slip from her grasp and flop closer to the bank. Nose-diving on the big fish, Betsy managed to get a firm hold, but again it gave a great heave and slipped from her grasp just inches from the water and freedom. With one last wild plunge, Betsy grabbed the fish and held it up in the air. The fish stopped flopping and hung limp in her hands. Turning with the huge fish in both hands, she marched triumphantly toward Tom. It’s him, Tom. We finally got ’im. We finally got—

With one last desperate convulsion, the great fish exploded from her hands and started flopping again. Just as the fish entered the water, she dived after him. Betsy looked over her shoulder and saw Tom laughing; she jumped out of the water and grabbed Tom, tumbling him into the river with her. Soon both of them were laughing and splashing.

Tom and Betsy climbed out of the river happy and refreshed. Tom picked up his fishing pole and bait can and took off running, calling over his shoulder, I’ll beat ya there.

Running as fast as she could because of his head start, Betsy was by far the faster of the two when it came to a foot race. Down the river trail, running through the trees they raced, laughing and teasing each other until they came to a bend where another smaller river ran. A meadow and an old barn sat between the two rivers. After catching their breath, Tom and Betsy started to run; but coming around a corner and over a small rise in the ground, the two came to a sudden stop.

Sitting on the bank of the river was a very pretty young woman. She was crying and had been for quite some time by the look of her. Her beauty immediately struck Betsy. The young woman wiped her eyes and looked at the two staring children. She smiled. Betsy thought she had never seen a more beautiful or a sadder smile in her life. I must have your fishing place, Amy said.

Tom replied, It’s OK, ma’am. We got others.

Betsy liked the sound of Amy’s voice. It was gentle and kind. What could make such a pretty woman so sad? Betsy wondered.

Amy smiled at Tom. Yes, I’m sure ya do. But this is your favorite spot. I know. I live right over there. Amy turned and pointed up the river toward a distant service station and café. I’ve watched you two before. This is my favorite place too. I like to come down here.

To cry? Betsy asked innocently.

Tom elbowed Betsy in the ribs and gave her a dirty look. She elbowed him back and returned the look.

Amy watched the two children and smiled. It was clear how innocent they were.

Yes. Sometimes. But not always. I don’t know. I think there’s something special about where the rivers meet. I come down here to sit and enjoy the peace and ask myself over and over why people can’t be more like rivers.

Betsy replied, It’s all right to cry. That’s what my daddy says.

Well, now sounds like you got a smart daddy. What’s your daddy’s name?

Ben. Ben Hammond, Betsy answered.

Amy was surprised by the name. Years ago and a lifetime away, a young woman named Hammond had helped her when she was desperate for help. Amy looked with new interest at Betsy.

Come over here.

Betsy walked toward Amy and stopped. Amy placed her hand on Betsy’s face and studied her. Betsy had never looked into eyes as sad or haunted as Amy’s eyes were.

There was the roll of distant thunder. It was common to have an afternoon thunderstorm this time of year in these mountains.

So you must live up that river, Amy pointed toward the smaller river.

Amy looked at Tom and then studied Betsy’s face again. Strange emotions struggled to remain hidden, but Betsy caught glimpses and was puzzled by what she did not understand, too young to know the kind of woman Amy was; her hard-living lifestyle had not yet left its mark.

I knew your mother, honey. There wasn’t a better person ever lived, Amy said.

I lost my mother too. It doesn’t make life easy. I haven’t made my mamma proud.

Amy, still young herself, hesitated a moment and then with a fierceness that Betsy still did not understand continued, Don’t you make the same mistake, ya hear?

Betsy nodded as Amy rose to her feet. Well, now that I’ve had my little cry, I guess I’ll go face life again. Reaching out impulsively, Amy hugged Betsy. Smiling at Tom, Amy turned and started across the meadow.

She’s beautiful, isn’t she? Betsy asked.

I don’t know . . . I guess, Tom replied.

Well she is. If I were her mama, I’d be proud.

At that moment, a tall man appeared out of nowhere and grabbed Amy by the arm. They were close enough that Betsy could see Amy was startled, and that she was afraid of the man. What none of them knew was that the man, Frank, had been watching for some time.

Unaware of the sick, perverted lust Frank felt, Betsy was also unaware of the danger to Amy.

Betsy had not asked Amy’s name. She did not know Frank. It would be many years before she understood how closely their lives were intertwined.

What she also didn’t know until it was too late was that Frank had a secret perversion, and he had marked Betsy as his victim.

Betsy turned to say something to Tom, but he was down by the river, throwing his baited hook into the water. She walked down and sat down close beside him. For reasons she didn’t understand, Betsy felt uneasy. She didn’t understand that her subconscious was warning her of danger. She sat beside Tom until the feeling went away. Clouds had started to block the sun, and thunder rumbled again, closer this time. Tom looked up at the sky. Seeing the thunderclouds, he reeled in his line. Sensing that Betsy needed to be close to him, Tom didn’t move. They sat close together in silence for several minutes until thunder rumbled close and they felt raindrops. Getting quickly to their feet, the children started to the barn. Suddenly the clouds opened, and rain came in a downpour. Running, they were soaked through by the time they reached the barn.

It was a tremendous storm. Lightning flashed, jagged forks of it hitting the ground and trees and the canyon’s edge. Wind blew in great gusts, strong enough to uproot trees and send them crashing down the canyons. Thunder exploded so loud it literally shook the ground while rain came down in torrents.

In the old barn, Tom convinced Betsy to climb up into the rafters with him where a rope swing was secured to a rafter, a stick handle on the end. Tom swung several times and landed in a big pile of hay.

After getting to the rafter and looking down, Betsy decided it didn’t look quite as fun as it had from below. She was grasping the handle of the swing. Tom, I don’t wanna do this.

Just jump and hang on. There’s nothing to worry about!

Betsy grasped the wooden handle tighter. From the rafters it sure looked like a long way down. It was too high.

Well, are ya gonna jump, or are ya chicken?

Betsy could abide just about anything from Tom, but she could not tolerate Tom calling her a chicken. She could do and had done everything Tom had ever done. She’d followed Tom around ever since they were little kids doing everything he did. How could he call her a chicken! Betsy took a deep breath to gather courage.

I’m not chicken. But if this rope breaks, I swear I’ll hate ya forever, Tom. Without giving Tom a chance to respond, she launched herself off the beam. Screaming with delight, Betsy swung across the barn several times kicking with her feet in an attempt to keep swinging higher. Suddenly and without warning, the rope snapped. Betsy’s scream turned from delight to terror that lasted only a split second before Betsy hit the floor. She missed the big pile of hay.

Frozen in disbelief, Tom finally scrambled down from the rafter. In a panic, he knelt at her side. Betsy! Are you OK?

Betsy sat up holding her ankle, tears streaming down her face. More than